There is a street in Copenhagen that bears the odd name of
Hysken Street. Why is it called that? And what does "Hysken mean?
It is supposed to be German, but that is an injustice to the
German word Häuschen, which means "small houses."
Many years ago, when it was named, the houses in this street were
not much more than wooden booths, almost like those we nowadays
see set up in the markets - yes, a little larger, and with
windows, but the panes were made only of horn or stretched
bladder, for in those days glass windows were too expensive to be
used in all houses. But then the time we are referring to was so
long ago that when my great-grandfather's grandfather spoke of it
he called it "the olden days." It was several hundred years
ago.

The rich merchants of Bremen and Lübeck
traded in Copenhagen in those days; they did not go there
personally, but sent their clerks, who lived in the wooden booths
in the "Street of Small Houses," and sold their beers and spices
there. The German beers were indeed excellent, and there were
many different kinds, including Bremen, Prysing, and Emser beer -
yes, and Brunswick ale, too - all sorts of spices, such as
saffron, anise, ginger, and especially pepper. Yes, pepper was
the most important of these, and consequently the German traders
in Denmark came to be called pebersvende (pepper
sellers). It was part of the contract they made before leaving
home that they should not marry in Denmark. Many of them remained
there until they were very old, and they had to look out for
themselves, live alone, and light and put out their own fires, if
they had any. Some of them became odd old fellows, with eccentric
ideas and habits. From them the name of pebersvende has
come to be given to all bachelors who have reached a certain age.
All this one must know in order to understand the story. People
make light of the pebersvend, the bachelor; they tell him
to put on his nightcap, pull it down over his eyes, and go to
bed.

Saw, saw the wood!
His bed feels so good!
The pebersvend wears a nightcap on his head,
And must himself light the candle by his bed.

Yes, they sing this about the pebersvend and thus make
fun of him and his nightcap - only because they know so little
about either. Ah, but such a nightcap one must never wish for!
And why not? Just listen!

In the olden times there was no pavement in the
Street of Small Houses; people stumbled into one hole after
another, for it was like a dug-up street. And it was so narrow,
and the booths were so near each other, that in the summertime a
canvas was often stretched across the street from one booth to
another, and then the aroma of pepper, saffron, and ginger was
very strong there.

Behind the counters stood not many young men;
no, most of the clerks were old fellows, and not dressed as we
might think, with wigs or nightcaps, knee breeches, or with vests
and coats buttoned up to their chins; no, it was our
great-grandfather's grandfather who went about dressed like that
and who appears in such attire in his portrait. The
pebersvende couldn't afford to have their portraits
painted, and that is a pity, for it would be well worth while now
to have a picture of any one of them, just as he stood behind his
counter, or walked to church on Sundays. The hat used was broad
brimmed and high crowned, and often one of the younger clerks
would stick a feather in his; the woolen shirt worn was partly
covered by a turndown linen collar; the jacket was tightly
buttoned, with a cape hanging loosely over it, and the breeches
extended down to square-toed shoes; stockings were not worn. In
the belt were fastened a spoon and a knife for eating and also a
larger knife for self-defense, which was often necessary in those
days.

This was the dress, on festival days, of old
Anton, one of the oldest pebersvende of the Street of
Small Houses, except that instead of the high-crowned hat, he
wore a low bonnet and, under it, a knitted cap, a regular
nightcap. He was so used to it that he was never without it; in
fact, he had two exactly alike. He would have been just the right
model for a painter, for he was as thin as a lath, wrinkled about
the lips and eyes, and had gray, bushy eyebrows and long, bony
fingers. Over his left eye hung a big tuft of hair, which
certainly wasn't good-looking, but it made him a man easily
recognized. He was known to have come from Bremen, though that
was not his native town; his master lived there, but he himself
had come from the town of Eisenach, in Thuringia, just below
Wartburg Castle. Old Anton did not say much about these places,
but he thought a god deal of them.

The old fellows of the street seldom gathered
together; each remained in his own booth, which was shut up early
every evening and then looked dark indeed, with only a faint ray
of light showing through the little horn windowpane on the roof.
Inside, the old clerk would be sitting on his bed, chanting the
evening psalm from his German hymnbook, or he would be mulling
over his household matters until far into the night; it was not a
very pleasant life, by any means. The lot of a stranger in a
strange land is a hard one; nobody pays any attention to one,
unless he happens to get in the way.

When in the darkness of night, rain and sleet
engulfed the street, this was a very gloomy and deserted place.
There were no lamps here then, except a very small one that hung
under the picture of the Blessed Virgin that was painted on the
wall at one end of the street. Water could be heard rolling and
splashing against the wharf by the castle, which the other end of
the street faced. Such evenings are long and lonely and would be
even more so if people had nothing to do. To unpack and pack, to
polish one's scales, or to make paper bags, is not necessary
every day, and so one tries to find something else to do.

And that old Anton did; he sewed his own clothes
and repaired his shoes. And when finally he went to bed, yes, he
always kept his nightcap on, and drew it a little further down
over his face, but hen usually he soon pulled it up to enable him
to see if his light was properly extinguished. He felt about it
and pressed down the wick, then turned on the other side and lay
down again. But often when he had done so he had the thought, "I
wonder if every coal in the little fire pan was really burned
out; one little spark may be left; it could make the fire burn
anew and cause trouble." And then he invariably got out of bed,
crept down the stepladder - it could not be called a staircase -
and yet when he got to the fire pan there was never a single
spark to be seen, and so he could go back to bed, feeling
relieved. But he frequently got only half way back and then began
to wonder if he had drawn the iron bolt of the door and if the
shutters were fastened; yes, then his skinny legs had to carry
him down the steps again. He shivered and his teeth chattered
when he crawled back into bed, for one often feels the cold more
on going from it into a warm place. He always drew the blanket
tighter and the nightcap closer over his eyes and then turned his
thoughts away from the trade and troubles of the day, but this
was not always pleasant. For then old memories came and drew
their curtains around him, and memories sometimes have sharp
needles in them that pierce us until we cry "Oh!" - they pierce
the flesh and burn and bring tears to our eyes!

And so it was with old Anton; often hot tears,
like the brightest pearls, came to his eyes and rolled down
across the blanket or onto the floor; it was as if one of his
heartstrings had broken; they seemed to smolder and then blaze
forth in flames, illuminating pictures of his life that never
faded from his heart. He always dried his eyes with his nightcap,
wiping away the tears and pictures, though the source of these
was still within him, deep in his heart. Whenever these pictures
appeared before him, they didn't follow one another in the order
of the actual happenings; the most painful ones came the
oftenest, but the happier ones came quite frequently too, though
these cast the deepest shadows.

"How beautiful the beech woods of Denmark are!"
people often said. But far more beautiful to old Anton were the
beech woods near Wartburg; mightier and more venerable than any
Danish trees were the old oaks up by the proud, stately castle,
where the ivy crept over the hard blocks of stone; the scent of
the apple blossoms there was sweeter than any fragrance in the
land of Denmark. He could remember it all very vividly.

A tear, big and bright, rolled down Anton's
cheek. In this tear he clearly saw two children playing, a little
boy and a little girl. The boy had red cheeks, curly yellow hair,
and honest blue eyes; he was little Anton, the son of the rich
trader - himself, in fact. The little girl had brown eyes and
black hair, and looked bright and clever; she was the
burgomaster's daughter, Molly. The two children were playing with
an apple, shaking it, and listening to the seeds rattle inside.
Then they cut it in two and, between them, ate all but one seed,
which the little girl suggested they plant in the ground.

"Then you'll see what will come of it! Something
you would never expect; a whole apple tree will come out, but not
right away!"

So they planted it in a flowerpot, both very
excited over their work, the boy digging a hole in the earth with
his fingers, the little girl dropping the seed into it, then both
smoothing the earth over it.

"You mustn't dig it up again tomorrow to see if
it has taken root," she said. "You must never do that! I did that
with my flowers, but only twice. I just wanted to see if they
were growing; I didn't know any better then, and the flowers
died."

The flowerpot was left with Anton, and he looked
at it every morning all winter long, but still saw nothing but
the black earth. Then when spring came, and the sun shone warmly,
two tiny green leaves peeped through.

But soon there appeared a third leaf - now whom
did that represent? Then another followed, and another; every
day, every week, the plant grew bigger and bigger, until it
became a tree.

And all this seemed to be reflected in that one
big, bright tear that followed and then vanished so soon; but
more such tears were quite likely to come forth from the fountain
that was old Anton's heart.

Near Eisenach there is a chain of rocky
mountains, and one of them is curiously rounded and completely
bare of trees, shrubbery, or grass. This is called Mount Venus,
for within it dwells the Lady Venus, a goddess of old pagan
times. Every child in Eisenach knows that Lady Venus - or Lady
Holle, as she is sometimes called - lives here, and that once
long ago she lured into her home that noble knight,
Tannhäuser, a minnesinger from the Wartburg circle of
singers.

Anton and little Molly often walked near this
mountain, and once she said to him, "Anton, do you dare knock at
the mountain and say, 'Lady Venus, Lady Venus, open!
Tannhäuser is here!'?" Anton did not dare do it, but Molly
did. She spoke out loudly and clearly, but only the first words,
"Lady Venus, Lady Venus!" The rest seemed to die away on her
lips. Anton was sure she hadn't really said anything out loud.
She kept her bold look, just as she did when sometimes she and
the other little girls would meet him in the garden and try to
kiss him simply because they knew he didn't like to be kissed and
would push them away. She alone dared to. "I can kiss him!" she
would say vainly, and put her arms around him. Anton never
objected to anything she wanted to do. How pretty she was, and
how clever!

Lady Venus in the mountain was said to be
beautiful, too, but that was an evil spirit's alluring beauty; it
was a very different beauty from that of the holy Elisabeth,
patron saint of the country, the pious princess of Thuringia,
whose good deeds were immortalized through stories and legends.
Her picture hung in the chapel, lighted by lamps of silver; but
she was not at all like Molly.

Year after year, the apple tree that the
children had planted grew larger, until it had to be transplanted
into the garden out in the fresh air; there the dew watered it
and the sun shone warmly upon it and gave it strength to endure
the long winter. And when the severity of winter was past, it
seemed to put forth its blossoms purely from joy that the cold
weather was gone. And that autumn it bore two apples, one for
Molly and one for Anton; it could not very well do less.

Molly grew up quickly, like the apple tree
itself, and she was as fresh as an apple blossom, but Anton could
not much longer enjoy the sight of this flower. All things
change! Molly's father left his old home, and Molly went with
him, far away. In our day, the journey from Eisenach to the town
that is still called Weimar takes only a few hours by railway,
but then it took more than a whole day and a night. And Molly
wept and Anton wept, but their tears united when they parted, and
Molly told him that she loved him better than all the splendors
of Weimar.

A year passed - two, three years passed - and
during those three years only two letters came from her. One was
brought by the regular carrier, and the second by a traveler; the
route was long and hard, with many twistings, and through many
different towns and villages.

Often Anton and Molly had listened to the sad
old story of Tristan and Isolde, and whenever he had heard it
Anton had always imagined himself and Molly in their
circumstances. But the name of Tristan, "one born in sorrow," did
not fit him, he thought, nor would he ever be like Tristan in
imagining that she whom he loved had forgotten him. That was so
unjust! For Isolde never did really forget Tristan, and when both
were dead, and buried on opposite sides of the church, the lime
trees that grew from their graves met over the roof of the church
and there their blossoms intermingled. Anton thought that story
so lovely and yet so sad - but his and Molly's story should never
be sad; and then he would gaily whistle a song by Walther von der
Vogelweide, the minnesinger. "Under the lime tree on the heath,"
it began, and its chorus was so pretty:

Out in the wood, in the quiet dale,

Tandarai!

Sang so sweetly the nightingale!

This song was continually on his lips. He
sang and whistled it all through one bright moonlit night as he
rode along the deep defile, on the road to Weimar, to visit
Molly. He wanted to arrive unexpectedly, and so he did.

He was welcomed warmly, with goblets full of
wine, friendly company, a comfortable room, and a good bed, and
yet it wasn't as he had imagined it. He did not understand
himself or the others, but we can easily understand it. One can
so often stay in a home with a family without taking root in any
way; one talks as people talk in a carriage; one knows the people
as people know each other in a carriage; mutual annoyances become
irritations, until one wishes either oneself or one's neighbor
were far away. It was something like this that Anton felt.

"I am an honest girl," Molly finally said to
him, "and I want to tell you the truth. Much has changed since we
were together as children; things are different, both inside and
outside us. Habit and will have no control over our hearts.
Anton, I don't want you to hate me, but soon I shall be far away
from here. Believe me, I shall always think kindly of you, but
love you - the way I know now I can love someone else - that I
can't do. I never have loved you that way. You must reconcile
yourself to this. Farewell, Anton!"

And Anton bade her farewell; he shed no tears,
even though he felt he was no longer Molly's friend. The red-hot
bar of iron and the frozen bar of iron will both tear the skin
from our lips if we kiss them; Anton was as wild with hatred now
as he had been with love before.

It didn't take Anton nearly the usual
twenty-four hours to ride home to Eisenach, but his poor horse
was ruined by his speed. "What does it matter?" he said. "I'm
ruined, and I'll ruin everything that reminds me of her - Lady
Venus, the false heathen! I shall cut down and smash the apple
tree and tear up its roots; never shall it bloom or bear fruit
again!"

But the apple tree was not felled; he himself
was felled by a fever and brought to his bed. What could help him
to rise again? A medicine was brought to him, the bitterest to be
found, but with power to strengthen the sick body and the
diseased mind.

Anton's father was no longer a rich merchant;
dark days of trial were waiting at the door; misfortune, like a
flood, poured in and streamed over the once rich house. The
father had become a poor man, shattered by sadness and anxiety,
and Anton had other things to occupy his mind besides his love
grief and anger against Molly. He had to be both father and
mother in that house; he had to keep things in order, to help in
every way, really to pitch in and work; he even had to go out
into the world and earn his bread.

He traveled to Bremen. There he experienced many
a day of poverty and hardship, and these either strengthen or
weaken the heart. How very different the world of real men and
women was from the imaginary world of his childhood! What were
the songs of the minnesingers to him now? Just so many empty
words! Sometimes he felt that way, but then sometimes the old
songs would sound in his soul again, and he would become pious in
his attitude.

"God's will is best," he would then say. "It was
good that our Lord did not let the heart of Molly cling to me,
for how would it have ended, now that fortune has turned against
me? She gave me up before she knew of this misfortune. Our Lord
has been merciful toward me; all has been for the best, all
things are ordered wisely. And she could not help herself; it was
wrong of me to feel so bitter and angry!"

And years passed: Anton's father was dead, and
now strangers lived in the old house. Yet Anton was to see his
old home once more, for his wealthy master sent him on a journey
that took him through his native town, Eisenach. Old Wartburg
stood unchanged on the mountain, with its "Monk and Nun" carved
in stone; the mighty oak trees lent the same majestic splendor to
it all as they had in the time of his childhood; the Mountain of
Venus still gleamed gray in its barrenness. He would gladly have
said, "Lady Venus, Lady Venus! Open your mountain and take me in!
Then, at least, I shall remain in my own country!" But that was a
sinful thought, and so he crossed himself. A little bird was
singing at a near-by bush, and this turned Anton's thoughts to
the old minnesong.

Out in the wood, in the quiet dale,

Tandarai!

How sweetly sang the nightingale!

He recalled so many things as he stood here and
saw once again the home of his childhood; he was looking at it
through a veil of tears. The house stood exactly as before, but
the garden had been laid out anew; a road now crossed a corner of
it, and the apple tree, which he had never destroyed, now was on
the other side of the road. The sun shone on it and the dew fell
on it as before; the weight of its rich fruit bowed its branches
almost to the earth. "It thrives," he said, "and that is good."
However, one of the large branches of the tree had been broken
off, the victim of cruel hands - but then, of course, the tree
now stood close to the road.

"People tear off its blossoms without a word of
thanks. They steal the fruit and break off the branches; one
could say, speaking of a tree, as we do of a human, that at the
tree's cradle no song was sung about what would be its fate. Its
story began so delightfully, and what has happened to it? It's
forsaken and forgotten, an orchard tree standing by a ditch along
a highway! There it stands without protection - plucked at and
broken! It won't die of that, but every year there will be fewer
blossoms, and soon there will be no fruit at all - and, yes, then
its story will be ended." Thus thought Anton under the old apple
tree.

And these later were his thoughts on many a
night in the lonely little room in the Street of Small Houses in
Copenhagen. His wealthy master, a merchant of Bremen, had sent
him there with the understanding that he would not marry. "Marry,
indeed! Ha! Ha! and Anton had laughed a strange and bitter
laugh.

Winter had come early, and it was freezing cold.
There was a snowstorm, so everyone not compelled to go out
remained indoors. Thus it happened that Anton's neighbors didn't
notice that his booth was not open for two whole days. Nor did he
show himself, for who would go out in such weather if he didn't
have to? These were gray, gloomy days. In the booth, where, of
course, the windows were not made of glass, it appeared to be
either twilight or dark night. During these two days old Anton
never left his bed, for the bitter cold had sapped his strength
and numbed his limbs. The old bachelor, the pebersvend,
lay forsaken and unable to do more for himself than reach the
water pitcher beside his bed, and now the last drop was gone. It
was not a fever, not an illness; it was simply old age that had
laid him low. There was almost continuous night about him where
he lay. A tiny spider, which he couldn't see, contentedly and
diligently spun its web above him, as if preparing some fine new
crape for mourning, in case his old eyes should close in
death.

Long and dull were the hours; he had no tears,
and he felt no pain. Molly was far from his thoughts now; it
seemed that he no longer was a part of the world and its tumult,
that he lay somewhere beyond it, with no one to remember him. For
a moment he felt hunger and thirst - yes, that was painful! - but
no one came to help him, and no one was going to come.

His thoughts turned to others who had suffered;
he remembered that the holy Elisabeth, the patron saint of his
homeland, the magnanimous sovereign of Thuringia, had visited the
humblest cottages and administered comfort and nourishment to the
sick and needy. His thoughts brightened as he reflected upon her
good deeds; he recalled the pious words of hope and trust in God
which she had spoken to those poor sufferers, how she had bound
up their wounds and brought food to the hungry, although her
cruel husband had forbidden it. He remembered the legend about
her - how, as she passed along with a basket packed with food and
wine, her husband, who had been following her, suddenly rushed
forward and asked her angrily what it was she carried in her
basket. Terrified, she replied, "These are only roses I have
picked in the garden." Whereupon he tore back the cloth from the
basket - and, lo, a miracle had been performed for the pious
woman - the bread, the wine, and all else in the basket had been
changed into the loveliest roses!

Thus lived the gentle saint in the thoughts of
old Anton, and thus she stood vividly before his failing eyes,
beside his bed in the wretched wooden booth in the land of
Denmark. He uncovered his head and looked up into her kindly
eyes; brightness surrounded him, and sweet, fragrant roses sprang
up all about him! Then a different fragrance, that of apple
blossoms, reached him; he saw a flowering apple tree, and it was
spreading its branches over him; it was the tree that had grown
from the little seed he and Molly had planted.

And the tree sprinkled its fragrant petals upon
him, and they cooled his hot forehead; they fell upon his parched
lips and seemed to strengthen him like wine and bread; they fell
upon his breast, and now he felt so relieved, so protected, and
wanted to sleep.

"Now I'll sleep," he whispered softly. "Sleep
will be good for me; tomorrow I shall be up again, well and
strong. Beautiful, beautiful! The apple tree planted in love! I
can see it now in glory!" And then he slept.

The next day - the third after his booth had
been closed - the snow ceased, and old Anton's neighbor from
across the way came to see what had happened to him. There he
lay, dead, holding between his clasped hands his old nightcap. He
did not wear this one when he lay in his coffin; he had another,
clean and white, on then.

Where were now the tears he had shed? What had
become of the pearls of his memories? They were left in his
nightcap, and in the cap they remained, for the genuine ones are
never lost in the washing. The old thoughts, the old dreams, all
were left in the nightcap of the pebersvend. Don't wish
for that nightcap for yourself! It will make your forehead too
hot, your pulse race too fast, and will bring dreams as vivid as
reality.

This was experienced by the first man who wore
the cap after Anton, though this was half a century later. He was
the burgomaster himself, a very prosperous man, with a wife and
eleven children; but he promptly dreamed of unhappy love,
bankruptcy, and hard times.

"Oh, how hot this nightcap makes you!" he said,
tearing it off, as one pearl after another trickled down and
glittered before his eyes. "It must be the gout!" said the
burgomaster. "Something glitters before my eyes!"

What he saw were tears shed half a hundred years
before - shed by old Anton of Eisenach.

Everyone who later wore the nightcap had visions
and dreams. The life of each became like Anton's. This grew to be
quite a story - in fact, many stories - but we shall leave it to
others to tell these. We have told the first of them, and we
conclude with these words - don't ever wish for the nightcap of
the pebersvend.